


Dearly Detested

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: Unholy Matrimony [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Arguing, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtesan Warrior of Light, Derogatory Language, Drinking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Spouses, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Injury, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutual Pining, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Non-Consensual Touching, Opposites Attract, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), cat allergies, sorta???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: Zenos yae Galvus would like to say (just to have it on record) that he absolutely detests Suiren goe Brutus.(Or wherein which enemies to lovers is also enemies to mutually smitten knife husbands)
Relationships: Yotsuyu goe Brutus & Original Character(s), Yotsuyu goe Brutus & Zenos yae Galvus, Zenos yae Galvus/Original Character(s), Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Series: Unholy Matrimony [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726696
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [slams this down] it took me ages to start rewriting this the way I want it to be, but here it is!!!! 
> 
> Suiren is my own OC (not really a WoL but sorta wol-adjacent I guess???) and y’all already know Zenos. If you don’t know him yet, play/watch Stormblood so you don’t get spoiled at all by this fic ❤️
> 
> [Hit up this gallery if you'd like some easy refs of Suiren being angry in your general direction](https://twitter.com/i/events/1257791906777575424?s=13)

Zenos yae Galvus is a man of little patience. He has time to spare and no wish to waste it on savages and their foolish machinations. He named Yotsuyu goe Brutus as viceroy in his stead  _ solely  _ for the respite it granted him—with which he gladly rejoined the hunt and struck down foe after foe, each more thrilling than the last—and yet here he is! Surrounded by gaudy opulence and tittering, made-up courtesans! How absolutely  _ dreadful. _

Unfortunately, sitting in a red parlor with the smell of fermented tea leaves filling his helm is a requirement of his retention of stewardship. He does, indeed, sit. He does, indeed, wait. Yotsuyu shows up late and moderately unapologetic with some new and painfully foreign flower in tow as if he would be best served by some uncultured, blank-faced Miqo’te. He scowls openly, displeasure clear as day, when they perform obeisances at Yotsuyu’s side. 

The sniveling, scraping ornament bowing before him says, “This one greets His Imperial Highness.” They flash him a truly venomous look from beneath straight cropped bangs. It might have been interesting to see if that hatred would hold up against his blade if their wrists weren’t thinner than the hilt of a sword. Zenos sighs and ignores the shiver that thrills down the courtesan’s spine at the sound. 

They are just another savage with nerves made of paper. Nothing new. Nothing  _ challenging.  _

Yotsuyu sits down and gestures for the courtesan to leave her side. They back away and stand motionless near the door, side by side with common servants. Zenos catches them stomping on some poor conscript’s foot when she brushes against the pale yellow of their sleeve. 

Yotsuyu works through the usual pleasantries with care, providing reports of the exports from within Yanxia and any rebel groups she had ordered put down. There are papers including expenses and expenditures for each outpost and encampment, but he sees no mention of the price it must have cost to have a pedigreed Miqo’te transported all the way to Kugane for sale.

He wishes she could see him raise a brow from behind his helm when he asks, “And the import expenses?” 

Yotsuyu smiles with her lips and not her eyes, motioning for the courtesan to approach. They do, albeit with a frustrating amount of tempered obedience, and sit at her feet like some sort of kept cat and not an entire living, breathing being capable of basic thought (though calling savage minds anything more than that of animals feels too kind). He watches the way their shoulders tense when Yotsuyu places her hand on their head, relaxing when she pets their hair gently. He wonders if they were expecting a strike. 

“Nothing of consequence. It was a strategic acquisition,” she answers. “No import necessary.”

Zenos gives a shallow nod. He had not pegged Yotsuyu as the type to pick up strays. “What is wrong with it?”

“Wretched thing owes me a life debt,” she all but coos, stroking the courtesan’s hair with a deceptively gentle hand. “He is painfully loyal.”

Zenos knows he is not in possession of tact so peerlessly guided as his honored father. The lovely thing about having chosen Yotsuyu for her current position himself is that he knows she is aware of this. She would not defy him, nor challenge his word. All she wants to do is keep her head attached to her body. He knows she would allow him his tactlessness with a painted smile without daring to criticize. He does not bother with tempering his curiosity before her.

“And the source?” he asks.

She taps twice on the courtesan’s shoulder and he withdraws for the second time with a bow and a carefully deferential gaze. Zenos wonders if he knows he can feel the thrum of his Echo as it pulses and withers in his breast not unlike a heart. He stand like an immaculate, olive-skinned statue by the rest of the gaudy entertainers and servants as if ruling over them by divine right—Zenos knows it’s perfect obedience born of conditioning, but the contrast between the Miqo’te’s cultured appearance and the explosion of hues that surround him is pleasing—and Yotsuyu allows her smile to turn from fake to something wickedly sharp. She takes a long drag from her pipe before exhaling, wisps of smoke spilling from her lips when she says, “He  _ was _ the eldest son of some long-established clan. I may have been a  _ little  _ impatient with my collection of dues—I am on top of my finances, mind. There is no harm in being early to collect safety taxes, rather than being  _ late _ .” She pauses to sip her tea, relaxed posture oozing satisfaction more than her next words. “Imagine my surprise when I learned that a family with an impressive pedigree would rather give up their eldest than pay even one Gil into the empire. Suiren is loyal to me and believes that I saved him from a crueler fate. I made sure of it when he started with the initial—“ her mouth twists with distaste “—theatrics.”

Zenos allows his Resonant to flow outward and grasp at the memories Yotsuyu is sorting through to tell her story. He sees a family assembled, can taste the tang of incense on his tongue, and—oh. Well, then. That is quite the snarl directed his way (or Yotsuyu’s way, really). He hears the crack of a gunshot and lays witness to Yotsuyu saying,  _ “Be grateful. Better my care than that of the Crown Prince _ . _ ” _

Zenos huffs a laugh. Yes, better her care than to be struck down along with all his kin. “You are not lying to me of his origin, Viceroy.”

“Of course not, my lord,” she agrees. “Suiren has his shots if you’d like to play with him.”

Zenos does not gag but it is a near thing. Whatever that docile little creature is, he does not believe it to be worthy prey. Suiren is too giving. Too  _ soft.  _ Zenos would like to cleave him in half for even so much as existing in proximity to his blade. “Were it not for your convenience as a living servant to Garlemald, I would have slaughtered you for that utterance  _ alone. _ ”

Yotsuyu apologizes with sincerely insincere platitudes. He does not listen to any of them, rising and beginning his usual leisurely walk out of the pavilion and to the barracks beyond. He may find  _ some  _ sport there, at the least. 

Three hours later, thoroughly bloodied and bored, Zenos begins to regret his faith in the supposedly unbreakable Doman spirit. Even without armor on and only one blade at his side, he is simply too much for the footsoldiers and their cowardly commanders. How utterly  _ disappointing _ . 

He would prefer to raze each and every member of the east barracks's XXCII squadron to the ground and allow dogs to feast upon their bodies than allow them to keep their rank and uniform. They were savages playing at worth and culture. Nothing more, nothing less. It would be a mercy for him to kill them where they stand than allow them the terror of choosing a death.

Yotsuyu always was better at that than he.

He flicks viscera from his blade and sheathes it with ease. The new one he had taken from a savage swordsmith is well made. A shame it’s the product of less than worthy hands. He’d quite like to use it for ceremonial battle instead of the blunted claymore so commonly seen at commencement speeches and duels for the crown. There is no fun when he can see every telegraphed movement like he pressed the fast-forward button on a tomephone. All his challengers should bow at his feet (just like that courtesan) and defer to his judgement (with a downcast gaze barely hiding his sharp-eyed glare).

Thinking back at it, Yotsuyu’s pet  _ was  _ rather angry. Zenos wonders if that anger could perhaps be turned to ferocity. It feels like a slippery slope to be looking for a foe in someone so obviously broken in. One moment he’ll be striving for someone who can challenge him and the next he’d be soft and soothed by a courtesan’s touch. He knows the law of beasts—that they who fight and  _ win  _ are those worthy of the spoils—and wonders if there is any of that greed left within Yotsuyu’s new pet that he could coax out from within him with blade and blood. 

He finds that he need not draw his blade when Suiren sweeps up beside him hours later, accosting him in the Grand Hall with no end to vitriol. He asks not at all kindly, “Are you quite  _ finished?” _

Zenos turns toward him, looking down sharply at his diminutive form, and wonders why it is that Eorzeans are so  _ small.  _ He’d have a neckache if Suiren intends to attempt at holding his attention. 

The Miqo’te prattles on, ears pinned back and white-furred tail lashing against the floor, “Are you deaf? I was quite sure Most Honored Mistress was conversing with you just fine less than a bell ago.” He has not a care that he is attracting attention from many an undue eye. Passersby cut to the other side of the castle’s grand hallway to avoid Zenos’s presence, cowering and picking up their pace when he glances their way. Suiren glowers at them with open contempt.

Zenos chances a response instead of feigning ignorance or outright dismissal, voice garbled by his helm when he asks, “Am I quite finished with  _ what?” _

“Being here. Killing things. Being a savage.” Suiren huffs, shaking his head in clear disapproval. The motion lets loose a small symphony of glasslike noises from the beaded drape of his many hair ornaments. His voice is nothing short of disgusted when he remarks, “The Mad Prince lacks comprehension skills, I see.”

Zenos blinks. He… is not quite sure how to respond. It is far from the first time he has been criticized or disrespected openly, but the reasons for hearing such words are unknown to him. It is usually his father telling him to grow up, to stop playing games using war, and to consider the consequences of his gallivanting about. 

Suiren is not his father. He is barely five and a half fulms tall and too juvenile in his anger to do any damage. They could not be more opposite if they  _ tried.  _

He settles for a scathing response, dismissing all complaints without care. His voice is far from compassionate when he says, “I was not aware the Viceroy allowed animals the privilege of speech.”

Suiren’s mouth thins to a lacquered, reddish line. His eyes narrow. “How else would she allow you audience,” he spits. 

Zenos huffs a laugh in response. How joyfully dull this little savage is—calling  _ him  _ something akin to an Eorzean, hissing and posturing like a cantankerous housecat, daring to flick open a fan and take shelter behind it to mutter curses—that he seems nearly worth killing. 

But Zenos has had enough of boring sport for the day. 

Turning from the creature still attempting intimidation, he walks away. It is between the eighth and ninth footfall that Suiren cuts in front of him with a sharp clatter of lacquered, wooden  _ geta _ and snaps, “I will have a word with you, whether you  _ like  _ it, or  _ not.” _

Zenos sighs and steps around him. 

The pattern continues until he reaches the end of the hall and exits into the main courtyard. Suiren freezes at the threshold. Well, that seems to be one way to be rid of him. 

A pilus salutes as he passes, falling into step behind him as they walk toward the airship dock. He would have to visit again in a month and already dreads it. What a waste of time. What a waste of  _ his  _ time, specifically. He cannot wait until he is no longer required to handle such droll affairs. 

He wishes there was some motivation to visit. Instead, there is only necessity. 

Boarding the airship, he remembers the sound of the courtesan’s footwear as he hurried down the hallway to make a nuisance of himself. It had a specific pattern to it. A sound not unlike  _ karankoron.  _

His boots are far too heavy against the sheet metal of the boarding ramp to make a sound like that. The sharpness is more pleasant to his ears. It reminds him of war and of the rush of blood that follows finding a worthy opponent. 

He settles down at the bridge and waits, watching Doma Castle shrink down to the size of a miniature from his seat in front of the main display screen. He would have to be back in a month.

With a sigh, Zenos resigns himself to the eventuality of his return. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning, but this time angrier and in possession of less than six fulms of height.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally put together a references!!! [screams] why cant we have different ear shapes and colors when making Miqo'te,,,,,  
> [Behold, a collection of Suiren in various states of anger and snobbery!](https://twitter.com/i/events/1257791906777575424?s=13)

Suiren is having a terrible day. First, it was a mixup with the kitchen staff over his mistress’s breakfast, followed by a truly  _ loathsome  _ few hours at the arm of Lady Han whose hands never seemed to sit any higher than barely above the base of his tail. If he could have her killed, he would without hesitation. Putting her hands on him in such a manner… it is  _ nauseating.  _ She is a trusted servant to his mistress, however, so he held his tongue and smiled on interval like her very  _ existence  _ was not nearly enough to make him gag. 

( _ “Imagine: our Mistress letting a savage into her bed,”  _ she had said, laughing in a way that sounded like an Orchestrion roll being played backward. _ “I wonder, do you think I could ask her to let it sing for me?” _

She ignored his quiet requests that she move her hands upward, please, Honored Lady Han. It is unbecoming for those of your station to handle this one as such. He can still feel her nails digging into his thigh from atop layers of silk.)

As if that had not been bad enough, his mistress had had him accompany her to greet the Imperial Prince. He is honored that she would trust him to make a good impression on so important a visitor, but he is also of the opinion that the prince, Zenos  _ whateverthehells  _ Galvus, should be found face-down in the mud somewhere far, far away and leave his mistress alone. She is always anxious when he visits. 

That man had stared too intently. He had not touched his tea. He had not even shown  _ basic _ courtesy and taken off his Kami-damned helm when sitting in her parlor. Had Suiren done any of those things… it would be well within his mistress’s right to lash him until he could no longer stand. 

It is in bad form to show disrespect to those of a higher station, but the moment he spots all seven-and-some-change fulms of the Garlean crown prince standing in the Grand Hall like he owns the place, Suiren cannot help but erupt. He fails to temper his disgust when he snaps, “Are you quite  _ finished?” _

When the prince turns to him, his tail picks up from a soft flick to an immutable thumping against the floor. His ears flick from forward to backward and flatten near to his head the longer he is ignored. “Are you deaf? I was quite sure Most Honored Mistress was conversing with you just fine less than a bell ago.” 

He glares, the sharp look shearing off into many a pointed sneer at passersby who attempt to snoop too obviously. He does not care about making a scene—best case would be that the Garlean princeling is rumored to be enamored with a “savage” courtesan—but instead worries for the trouble it would bring his mistress if he were to cause her any manner of inconvenience.

Suiren cannot keep himself from huffing when he finally (by the Kami, that took  _ ages)  _ is graced with a response. “Am I quite finished with  _ what?” _

“Being here. Killing things. Being a savage.” He shakes his head and internally winces at how loud his many hair ornaments have become. The gift from Lord Hitoe—a full set of stained glass hairpins—seems to be more trouble than it’s worth. The frustration he feels at having to deal with being made of lavish noise bleeds over and into his voice when he remarks, “The Mad Prince lacks comprehension skills, I see.”

The prince in question does not respond for a long moment (again) and does not show him any respect (again) before his terrible, horrible, metal-grinding equivalent to a voice settles on something adjacent to Common. “I was not aware the Viceroy allowed animals the privilege of speech.”

Suiren does his utmost to avoid acting out, but fails spectacularly when he responds nearly on impulse with a sharp, “How else would she allow you audience?” He knows he’ll have to reapply his makeup from how harshly he holds back further retorts. He may as well have painted stress-lines all across his forehead and around his mouth. Hideous. Unsightly. He pulls a fan from his belt and flicks it open, lifting it to disguise what sections of his face he is sure are less than charming. If he uses it as a barrier with which to disguise his cursing, well… nobody else need know but him.

The prince laughs at him. It’s a short and vaguely amused sound. Suiren is not sure if he should be flattered or insulted that he made the war-obsessed Mad Prince laugh. He settles for insulted.

He bristles and prepares a scathing retort and then the prince turns away from him. To walk away. Without a goodbye. He hurries after him, geta nearly louder than the slow, clunking crawl of the Crown Prince’s armored gait. “I will have a word with you, whether you _like_ it, or _not,”_ Suiren asserts, thoroughly furious, only to be ignored without so much as a glance. The prince steps around him and continues on down the hall. 

Suiren steps in front of him, opens his mouth, and is pushed none too gently to the side. He tries again. And again. And againand _ againandagain _ . He is ignored every single time.

The prince steps across the threshold separating the Grand Hall from the palace’s main courtyard and Suiren stops, sunlight cutting a sharp line between him and the outside. He could follow. He could step right over it and head out to tear the atrocious little princeling a new— or he could  _ not _ . 

Most Honored Mistress had told him it is far better for those of his station to stay indoors. She said it is more becoming of him to keep his training relegated to the small hall connected to his quarters instead of baking in the sun. He would not shame her by being seen  _ roasting  _ like some  _ laborer _ (even if his anger burns hotter than a thousand thousand suns).

With that thought in mind, he turns away from the courtyard. He is to host in a bell and his wrinkles will not cover themselves. 

He hopes to never see that dreadful man again.

  
  


A month later sees them at odds over tea. Suiren does not smile while sipping from Yotsuyu’s favorite porcelain. Normally, being allowed to use it would be cause for celebration, but being sat across from his Highness has long since spoiled his mood. It feels like more of a blessing to be surveilled. 

There are no servants lurking in the corners or by the door. The tea had been brought in from the kitchens  _ himself  _ and there is no need for further chaperoning. He can scowl (mildly, of course. He is not wont to develop wrinkles) as much as he would like when his mistress is not around. She would correct him with a firm hand if she witnessed his unpleasant expression. The prince seems to mind very, very little by comparison. 

They sit in near silence. It is not  _ tense,  _ per se, but Suiren itches to speak so badly his tail has taken to flicking at the tip. The clink of his cup against its saucer is painfully loud in the empty air.  _ Something _ must be done, absolutely  _ anything,  _ lest he lose his tenuous grasp on civility. 

Zenos shifts, sighing. He is still wearing his kami-damned helm. Suiren wonders if he ever takes it off. Maybe the rumors of disfigurement are true—the ones that say he tried to use magic and it scarred him for life—or maybe he is simply irreverent. There is absolutely nothing about him that screams “self-conscious.” Rather, he is self- _aware_ _.  _ He knows full well the power he holds and is used to commanding it. He knows Suiren hates him nearly more than he does that sniveling little worm named Asahi. 

“Does it ever get stuffy in that tin can of yours?”

Zenos tilts his head. With the tall prongs of his helmet unbalancing it, the motion is ever so slightly more exaggerated than intended. His voice filters through a respirator, gravelly like he swallowed a fistful of shrapnel, when he asks, “Need we play at equals?”

“Mayhaps,” Suiren snaps, “but only because you are below me in all other ways except for status.”

Zenos has a terrible laugh. It’s ugly, rasping, the type of thing that tells him that the prince really doesn’t do it much. Suiren pours himself more tea as a means of distraction from how it makes his tail fluff up ever so slightly. 

He really, truly hates the Garlean Crown Prince. He tries not to repeat the thought much (they both need to make it out of this encounter alive, unfortunately) and maybe his lack of focus makes his mind wander past the gates of propriety and into a darker corner that finds him saying, “Do you find it funny to make an arse of yourself?” 

“And you would know much of those, considering your station.”

Suiren feels his expression twist. How terrible his company is to force him to be so unsightly. “If you intend to be of the same sort as your men, I invite you to continue. However, if you are making light of Most Honored Mistress’s virtue, it would be this one’s honor to see you out,” Suiren replies lightly. He is not  _ tense _ . He is simply sitting in the parlor, waiting on an airship to finish refueling. This is no different from any other visitor he has entertained.

(Though it is not as if he chose this life. He has his honored mother—or rather, her fear of Garlemald—to thank for that. Her perfect eldest son reduced from capable heir to a glorified trinket was a good enough bargain for the safety of her clan. 

What a pitiful head of household to be forced to trade her precious son for safety. It’s because of men like Varis and his thrice-damned son that his mother made that choice. His life is worth less than that of his entire clan, but that does not mean it is any easier a pill to swallow.)

“Do you treat all your guests this way?” Zenos asks. Suiren knows it to be rhetorical. 

He finishes his tea just as a servant comes skittering in. They kneel nearly flat to the floor and wait in silence. He looks down on them, uninterested, and sighs. “You may speak.”

“The airship is ready to depart, your Highness. My lord.”

“You are dismissed,” he says. “We will be along shortly.” 

The servant nods sharply and skitters away, no doubt to kiss up to some other courtesan with time for such frivolities. Suiren stands, gives the shallowest bow permissible, and takes his leave. 

“We” he had said, but he is sure there is no way a man like Zenos would find himself lost among the red-carpeted hallways of Doma Castle. It isn’t like anyone else could tell on him for abandoning his (read: Yotsuyu’s) guest─though he wouldn’t put such juvenile behavior above people like Sayuri and her attendants. Their words have no merit when pitted against the trust Honored Mistress puts in him. 

And like that, his terrible afternoon is over. The prince is out of his hair, his mistress will be pleased that it was handled without her intervention, and Suiren is free to lounge about in his quarters until the evening. He hopes (and maybe even prays a little) that the kami will have mercy on him and strike the airship from the sky before he has to see it again. 

The weather stays absolutely, cursedly clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [screams at the moon] elidibus if you can hear me can i get a hug and some mcnuggies

**Author's Note:**

> Comments for the poor? Spare a keysmash, mayhaps? Some crumbs of feedback for a struggling author?  
> Not cozy leaving a comment? No worries! Kudos and bookmarks are appreciated too!!
> 
> Hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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